Kereniki & Dunne, Chartered Accountants

The office is by

the railyard, a whipped-

up sheath of brick,

undeniably

not art deco, the cost

of rent a happy

medium.

Sure, there’s the

underside of town

which they’d rather see

unseen: the man who laves

the windows

for a loonie, his plastic

pail that’s cracked

along the middle like a fault, 

a squeegee like his tooth

which has remained,

contorted and protruding

from his lips.

He does it so the

world will ever-sparkle;

not for those who

work inside,

looking up to glance

the solar zenith, a wren

that glides across the freshly

wiped,

but the down-and-out

who peer into its sheen—

watching fingers

frantically flit

along the qwerty;

so they and he

can see the price of

things, 

the irrevocable

loss of light

upon your face, in-between

a lunch’s end

& five o’clock,

something that he

needed free of charge,

on any day he chose,

beyond a ledger’s mark in

black or red.

Andreas Gripp

September 1, 2025

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